


My Tragedy

by 3RatMoon



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings, trans alyosha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 00:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20518679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3RatMoon/pseuds/3RatMoon
Summary: Samot visits the Forge, and though he does not know what he's looking for, he almost certainly does not find it.





	My Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone on my private twitter for putting up with my constant whining about this taking too long, and to imperialhare especially for the encouragement and betaing!

The Forge was a confusion of the familiar and unfamiliar. The shape of the chamber was warped by the abundance of new growth, made smaller as jungle foliage crowded in, but as Samot looked, he could see some of the original stone peeking through, vague shapes where the plants made their foundation. The  _ whoosh, clink _ of hammer on metal was so familiar that the old god didn’t realize its presence at first, didn’t remember that it was the sound of someone working, someone who shouldn’t be there anymore.

But of course, Samot approached the anvil and found no ghosts. The man working there was brown-skinned, but lighter than the one who once called the Forge home. His hair was long and almost white, and his body was toned from work but still far too thin.

“Alyosha,” Samot said, slowly, like he was tasting each syllable.

He had almost forgotten about the priest. He had heard Alyosha’s prayers before, as he often heard the prayers of the followers of the god who replaced his husband and his son (the god who he had buried to keep said followers safe for so long). Samot had showed himself to Alyosha once, in a dream, just to hear someone from the world outside his city speak his name. He did, trembling with fear and awe and desire, which stroked Samot’s ego, but he never approached. Samot remembered pitying the man— bright, kind, and so full of faith in a god who was far from the god he thought He was. Samot remembered distantly that the wizard who obsessed over him so was once Alyosha’s lover. Samot pitied them both.

The Alyosha that looked up at him, his robe cast off one shoulder and hammer in hand, was different from the Alyosha that Samot had visited then. 

The priest paused briefly, perhaps afraid of Samot’s appearance. The vanity in Samot made him wonder again if he should grow his hair out faster, but the other part of him liked the new look, thought it fit the wildness of his glowing white eyes and starstuff scars.

“Hello, welcome,” Alyosha said, finally. “I am afraid that you have me at a disadvantage.”

Samot stepped closer, feeling quite suddenly too impatient for social ritual. “So  _ you _ are the architect of the Spring. I wonder how that came about…?”

Alyosha took half a step back, subconsciously. “To a degree, yes,” he said. Samot couldn’t tell how much of that statement was the priest being modest and how much was him being obtuse.

“Don’t worry, Exarch,” Samot purred, continuing his approach. “I came here out of curiosity, not malice. Though, we have done as much damage without intent as with it, I suppose. Perhaps more.”

Alyosha frowned. Instead of commenting on Samot’s strange reassurance, he said, “Such titles are unnecessary, dear guest. Just Alyosha will suffice.”

Samot smiled. “Alyosha then,” he said. “When did you renounce your title?”

A brief flash of annoyance crossed Alyosha’s face, which excited Samot, but then all fight in him seemed to die, like an ember with no fuel to become flame.

“There are many answers to that question,” Alyosha said, sighing. “I could say that I never renounced my title, that merely the Creed as I know it has disintegrated and left my station orphaned, but that is not quite true. I could say that I renounced my title when I found that the Creed was corrupted by the Dark Son, or that my Lord was not who I believed Him to be, but that is not entirely the truth, either. If the Creed had been what I believed it could be before the coming of this latest cataclysm, I would still preach as I had as Exarch. And… I had seen corruption already, long before the Winter. I had already seen that my Lord had changed post-Erasure, but I chose to read the texts differently. I chose to see the corruption in the Creed as individual rather than a sign of something deeper. I wanted to keep an open mind, I-I wanted to hope for positive change, like…”

Alyosha stopped, closed his eyes. The air was silent, but Samot didn’t speak. Eventually, Alyosha took another shaky breath and continued.

“The answer I have for you that contains the most truth, is that I did not forsake my Lord until I saw His cruelty first hand. Perhaps that is lucky.”

Samot did not sense any anger or bitterness in Alyosha’s voice, only a deep sadness. It twisted in Samot’s gut. Like a building storm, a potent kind of self-loathing rose in him. It was a strangely tactile pain, and one that Samot very much wanted to drown out.

Samot renewed his approach with increased vigor. He could change the world with a thought, so he did, pulling his cloak around his shoulders and donning his shining crown. Alyosha blinked and saw him, and his mouth fell open in both surprise and awe. Samot smiled a wild smile— how he relished in his own glory, and how he hated himself for it.

“Oh, Alyosha,” he said, soft but filling all the space between them. “Poor Alyosha. How much of my husband’s cruelty you must have endured over all these years, without even knowing. How much all of the people of Hieron must have endured…”

Alyosha backed up against the chair he kept for himself near the anvil, sat down hard into it. “You…” he started, then shook his head. “My Lord was no longer your husband after everything that led to the Erasure. He—”

“ —was killed by my son, under my direction,” Samot finished for him. It almost didn’t hurt to say it like that, like he was a monstrous, uncaring god.

“I know,” Alyosha said. He had that look again, and Samot wanted to wipe it off his face. Perhaps it was a sign of the mood he was in that he thought a kiss would do just as well as anything else.

Samot smiled again, inviting but dangerous. “If you know, why am I still welcome here?”

There. Alyosha’s focus flickered, his body shuddering just a moment.

He took a deep breath. “My Lord, God of Books and Wine, Boy-King Matured, Last Wolf of Hieron, Knower of Things…  _ Samot… _ what do you want?”

Samot was standing very close by then. Alyosha’s breath came shallow and quick, but he did not flee nor banish Samot from his presence. Samot watched his gaze linger on his lips for a moment.

“It is as I said before,” Samot answered with barely a whisper. “I am merely satisfying my curiosity.”

He leaned in just as Alyosha did.

The man kissed much like he spoke, with careful consideration hiding a well of passion. Samot enjoyed drawing it from him, rewarding him with a lascivious groan when he curled his fingers in the hair at the nape of Samot’s neck and pulled.

_ “Yes, _ Alyosha,” Samot hissed as Alyosha sucked bruises on his neck. Even when debauching him, Alyosha had such an excruciatingly gentle way of going about it. Samot felt a number of different ways about it all, and the complexity did not appeal to him. At least, it was easy enough to ignore.

Samot moved to straddle Alyosha. They kissed hungrily, hands grasping at each other’s clothes and the bodies that lay beneath. Samot did not move Alyosha when he started to tremble with fatigue from supporting himself at an unnatural angle, but instead simply reconfigured the space around them so he was always sitting properly. Still, Samot was quickly growing restless. He wanted Alyosha’s weight on top of him, wanted to dig his claws into his back, wanted to be pinned down and fucked until the wolf in him was satisfied.

Samot undid the sash of Alyosha's robes and opened them, and Alyosha followed suit by reaching for Samot's many buttons. They touched each other eagerly, trailing hands over skin like Samot's scars or Alyosha's bones didn't bother them. Alyosha smiled a little as he reached for Samot's cock, but when Samot touched his, he only winced.

At once, Samot saw the problem. Another thought, and he was pressing a small bottle into Alyosha's hand.

"Don't be greedy," he said with a grin. "This is for both of us."

Alyosha nipped at Samot's lip and wet two fingers.

Samot enjoyed playing with him. He nipped back when Alyosha leaned in again to kiss him properly, threatened it a couple more times before giving in. The game made it that much better when their lips finally met, Samot thought. Alyosha sat back in the chair afterwards and just watched him for a moment, oiled fingers circling his cock, and his heated look excited Samot.

“Turn around,” Alyosha said.

Samot raised an eyebrow, challenging, and Alyosha just smiled.

“I can’t reach you otherwise,” he said.

Samot stretched lazily, but was clearly making a show. He turned and leaned his elbows on the anvil, presenting his backside. Alyosha ran his fingertips up the backs of Samot’s thighs, grasped his ass in both hands. He squeezed, teased Samot’s rim with his thumb, taking his time the way Samot had in repositioning himself.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Samot said, petulant.

“Perhaps I will,” Alyosha replied, and he said it with such a dangerous serenity that Samot felt a shiver run through his body.

Still, Alyosha did not linger too long. He continued to touch himself with one hand while he stretched Samot open with the other, one finger after another. Samot made obscene sounds, pushing back impatiently against each thrust.

“Fuck me,” Samot whined, or growled.

Alyosha chuckled. “Do you happen to have anything else hidden away somewhere to help facilitate— oh.”

Samot smirked over his shoulder at Alyosha, who was examining the fine leather harness that was now strapped firmly to his hips. He ran a hand over the lacquered phallus, wondering.

Samot nudged the man with his foot, bringing his attention back. “Can you stand?” he asked.

Alyosha tested the idea, slowly levering himself up from his chair and standing behind Samot, gripping his hips. Samot arched his back invitingly.

“It seems that I can— for a little while anyway,” Alyosha finally said. “You will have to ride me after that, I’m afraid.”

“That is enough,” Samot said, nudging the tip of the phallus with his rear.

“Is it?” Alyosha asked.

Samot bared his teeth. “This is hardly the time to get  _ philosophical.” _

That seemed to convince Alyosha to stop teasing. There was barely a pause between when he oiled the cock and when he pressed forward.

_ “Yes,” _ Samot groaned. He gripped the edge of the anvil to keep from thrusting his hips back, allowing himself to take a moment to enjoy the sensation of being filled.

The new angle prevented Alyosha from continuing to press close to Samot, so he ran his hands over every part of him he could reach. Alyosha’s touch was both broad and light, and Samot shivered when he reached up to run his nails over Samot’s scalp. Alyosha’s free hand found Samot’s hip, the hand in Samot’s hair tightened, and he started moving with short, quick thrusts that immediately had Samot writhing.

“Yes, yes, fuck me, tear me apart—” Samot cried, but his voice barely carried even as the volume climbed. The foliage soaked up the sound greedily, and a small part of Samot felt put out by the denial of his own pleasure echoed back to him.

Alyosha had been quiet except for his laboured breathing. Samot almost told him to say something, but just then, Alyosha gave a strained groan. 

_ “Oh, _ Samot,” he said, and that made everything in Samot clench deliciously.

Samot took Alyosha’s hand from where it had strayed from Samot’s hair to his shoulder, and wrapped his lips around two of his fingers and sucked. That made Alyosha curse properly, and Samot would have smiled except for how engrossed he was in his new task. He could have come easily like that, with Alyosha’s fingers in his mouth and his cock inside him while his own was pressed between his stomach and the flat, smooth surface of the anvil. However, he held himself back, and whether it was to prolong the pleasure or for some other reason, he did not know.

Alyosha tired shortly after that. He fell back into his chair, and Samot turned, growling as he climbed astride him again. He rode the man ruthlessly, his breath fast, his nails digging into Alyosha’s thighs. Alyosha had started to tremble again, helpless to the mounting pleasure that Samot was feeding. Some time ago, one of Samot’s students was able to conclude with their study that, while the pressure provided by using such a prosthetic was capable of producing an orgasm in the wearer, it only happened very rarely. However, as was proven by another student some years later, Samot tended to have a unique effect on mortals. Alyosha cried out when he came, and Samot was pleased to have finally gotten him to raise his voice.

Still, Samot was not yet satisfied. He rocked the chair they occupied in his search for release, and Alyosha moved with him, touching every part of him he could reach and covering his neck and chest with messy, biting kisses.

“Yes,  _ yes—” _ Samot hissed, reaching with one hand to stroke himself.

Normally, he might have thrown his head back and shouted to the skies. But, as he was, focused and furious and strangely withdrawn, he almost curled in on himself as he came, letting out one long, low moan. Alyosha held him as he came down from it, and he found the press of their bodies comforting, like when he was young and sometimes laid down naked in the grass just to remember what it was like to be a creature of sensation and substance.

Slowly, he became aware that Alyosha was speaking. He listened quietly to his soft, whispered words, and he found them vaguely familiar. Then, he realized why, because of course, Alyosha was reciting poetry.

It took Samot a moment to recognize it. There were enough poems about him that were credited to Samothes to fill a small library, though none of them were actually written by his husband, and a few were not even originally about him, but merely became known that way later. The one that crossed Alyosha’s lips, though, was unique in that the author did not pretend to be Samothes, or even one of Samot’s passing lovers. Instead, the story was one of longing that drew one forward even as it pushed them back, caught forever between desire and fear, unresolved.

_ “Bright hair like lightning, eyes like the hearts of glaciers— whom else could set my heart on fire, burn it so hot that it feel like ice?” _ Alyosha quoted. “That line is quite illustrative. I always was caught by it, even before you first appeared to me.”

Alyosha’s hands ran the length of Samot’s back, fitting the shape of his body, and as he spoke, he looked up at the god, and Samot saw such a profound tenderness there that he felt exposed by it. He unseated himself smoothly, conjured up a silk robe to wrap himself in, and tried, for all the world, not to look affected.

“Do you really feel as distant as the author, when they never so much as approached me and you’ve just had me in your bed?” Samot made a show of looking Alyosha up and down. “Figuratively.”

Alyosha just smiled sadly. “As the author might have learned one day, it is very possible to lay with someone and still not know them after it is done.”

Samot hissed in a breath, hackles fully raised by the man’s words. “You insult me.”

Alyosha shook his head. “I apologize. I mean that I did not invite you to lay with me in order to feel a particular kind of emotional intimacy. That is not what you wanted, and besides the point, I believe it beyond both of us at the moment, in all honesty.”

Samot could understand that. Alyosha had a strange way of speaking that seemed to lay his heart bare in some ways while leaving things the size of mountains entirely unsaid. Samot found that he wondered what happened between Alyosha and his ex-lover.

“I can imagine a world in which I had devoted myself to you,” Alyosha continued in his soft, mournful voice. “It is unfortunate that I have already chosen my duty in this one.”

Samot scoffed suddenly. “Devote yourself to me! After all the things that my husband and I set in motion that cause you no end of misery? After how I’ve treated you just now?” The words surprised him, that worm of self-loathing roiling in his gut.

Alyosha shrugged. “That is the tragedy of these things. Sometimes what one does doesn’t lessen the love you have for them— it just makes that love hurt.”

Samot realized he was crying. “You tell me this while you sit at my husband’s work table, fighting for life even as it kills you?” he shouted. “Foolish man!”

Of all things, Alyosha let out a small, weak laugh. “That is  _ my _ tragedy,” he said.

Clearly, saying that out loud hurt him, but another part of Alyosha seemed totally unbothered, as if he had accepted his fate completely, and it baffled Samot. Vindictively, he held onto that part of Alyosha that hurt, and could not help but dig in his claws a little.

“Tell that tragedy to the Heat and the Dark,” he spat.

He left after that. Still, when he had ascended all of the Strata and arrived finally at his room in the tower at the Last University, he found that he could not stop crying. He cried, and he cursed Alyosha. How dare he say that to him, he thought. How dare he act like he knows what it’s  _ like. _ He cursed his husband after that, then his father, then Severa and Galenica, and then he cursed himself, over and over, most of all.

Some time after his tears dried was when he decided to destroy the world.


End file.
